Small Comforts
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: It's been six months since, and John seems to be losing his mind. Post-Reichenbach, some spoilers.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, all rights belong to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

...

_And so you see, I have come to doubt_

_All that I once held is true,_

_I stand alone without beliefs,_

_The only truth I know is you._

Kathy's Song, by Simon and Garfunkel

Six months. Six months, and he still wasn't over it. The flat seemed empty, lifeless without him restlessly pacing and/or shooting at the wall in his boredom. It was like the time his parents had died, except this was worse. He'd _seen_ him die, right in front of him, and there'd been nothing he'd been capable of doing. It clawed at him, making him die a little himself with each passing day. _Goodbye, John._

He pretended that everything was alright, was as it should be – he was moderately cheerful around his colleagues and friends from the hospital, Greg Lestrade called up once in a while to check up on him, as did Mycroft Holmes. He called Harry once a week and they exchanged any significant news in their lives that week. If there wasn't any, Harry just let him rant at her and comforted him (she wasn't so much of a wreck right now as having a good time – she'd found a new girlfriend and they'd been together these past five months. She hadn't left yet, so that was a good sign – the road to recovery was being followed.). He told everyone that he was _fine_. But _of course_ he wasn't 'fine'. And Mycroft and Lestrade saw through that, sharp as ever.

The lies were easy to maintain to others – harder to convince was his mind, which kept replaying Sherlock's fall from _that cursed rooftop._ He woke up each night in a cold sweat, trembling, mouth aching and dry from all the phantom screams he'd screamed as Sherlock's body thudded to the ground. It haunted him, that nightmare, had done for long. And there was no escaping it. He'd tried drinking copious amounts of coffee to keep himself awake so that he didn't have to face that dreadful scene again, but all it did was send him into a trance-like state where all he saw was Sherlock. Falling. _Again._ And slowly but surely, a Sherlock-like insomnia set in. _Stupid sodding Sherlock._

One of the only reasons that kept him from quickly spiralling into insanity was Mrs Hudson. He knew she would have benefitted greatly by kicking him out and taking in another tenant, one who wasn't as temperamental as he was these days, but being the kind old lady that she was, she let him stay. He knew she was still hurting, the wound of losing Sherlock was still too raw and still too fresh, but she found ways to keep both of them occupied and away from brooding.

Little things like going shopping for groceries, having pointless rows with the chip-and-pin machines at Sainsbury's or Tesco's (whichever was more convenient and depending upon the mood he was in), drinking Sherlock's favourite tea (a bitter lemon concoction that John had slowly grown to like, simply because it had been one of Sherlock's many oddities), occasionally wearing Sherlock's scarf because it smelled like him (mint, something woody, and most of all – freedom), kept him sane.

But he was still hopeful. A tiny voice at the back of his mind that still waited for a miracle, for _something_ to happen, to prove to him that, against all odds, Sherlock Holmes was alive and not, as everyone thought, rotting in his grave.

Perhaps this was the reason why the flat was still exactly as it had been before Sherlock had thrown himself off the roof of St. Bart's. The chemicals had, of course, been either thrown away or donated to universities, as well as his experimenting equipment. Apart from that, the books on the living room were still open on the page they had been, his bedroom (not that he'd used it much, anyway) was exactly as it had been six months prior. John didn't have the heart to throw anything out, and strove to keep everything the way it was with a feeling bordering on reverence.

He still half-expected to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair, still as a statue, not saying anything, _just sitting there_. Thinking, brooding, sorting through his mind palace – who knows? It'd have been good to know that he was just _there_, even if he didn't say anything. Even if he'd never admitted it to Sherlock out loud before the fall, he always made him feel… _safe._ Secure. Wanted.

Though now that it'd been more than half a year, the hope was beginning to wane. It was still there, but a stronger feeling of _resignation_ was beginning to take its place. Sherlock was gone, _truly gone_, and it would do no-one any good to linger on to his memories. It was time to move on.

However hard he tried, though, he just couldn't do it. He tried his hand at dating (two girlfriends in as many months, and both left him because they felt that he was a man of the past, and wanted a more 'modern' man) and at making more 'normal' friends (all of them were too boring). Neither worked out, simply because he was too used to _Sherlock_.

And so he'd resigned himself to his fate. If his destiny was to wait for his dead best friend to resurrect himself, because he _knew_ he wasn't dead, so be it.

Which was why it was still perfectly normal when, one day, he came home to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair, writing something furiously. Until he realised that it _couldn't be_ Sherlock.

The shopping bags fell to the ground with a loud _thud_, and his mouth fell open. _It's a hallucination, it's a hallucination_, he chanted to himself in his mind.

'Go away,' he said angrily to the apparition. 'Stop making this harder than it already is.'

'On the contrary, John, I'm here to make it easier,' the Sherlock-ghost-apparition said, looking up with a slight grin.

'Are you Death?' John asked.

'No, but I am your Salvation.'

'Like I said, go away. Sherlock Holmes is dead.'

'Do you truly believe that, John? Do you?'

'Yes.'

'Yet here I stand before you, real flesh and blood.'

'You can't be _Sherlock_.'

'I assure you.'

'No.'

'John.'

'You were _dead!_' John shouted, tears pricking his eyes like the sharpest needles. 'I _saw_ you fall!'

'That I did.'

'I checked your pulse. You were definitely dead.'

'Yet I survived.'

'But…' John shook his head uncomprehendingly.

'I am alive, Jawn.' The slight drawl was back in his voice.

'I'll ascertain that,' John said, walking uncertainly with shaking legs towards Sherlock, who stood, the notebook and pen falling to the threadbare Persian rug. He touched Sherlock lightly on the arm, then gripped it tight. _Thinner than before, he's missed a lot of meals,_ the concerned flatmate in him noted disapprovingly. The angry friend, however, wanted to do something to Sherlock. Punching him was the easiest option.

Sherlock didn't even try to block the flying fist, even though he could've.

'I deserved that,' he stated simply after John had let out all of his anger in three swift punches – one to the face and two to the gut.

'Sorry,' John gasped.

'I deserved it,' Sherlock said again.

'Yeah. Yeah, you did.'

Sherlock's hand grazed across the cut on his lip.

'I always believed in you. I didn't, not even for a moment, think that you were a fraud. I knew you were real.'

'I know.'

'No, you didn't.'

'No, I didn't.'

'You were afraid.'

'I'll admit, yes.'

'You're an idiot.'

'Yes, I suppose I am.'

A grin spread across John's face, making Sherlock smile as well. They laughed a little, feeling the giddiness of relief and the warmth of an old friendship resuming.

'Welcome back.'

x—x


End file.
